I didn't sit down for a good six years.
We were passing by the community playground on Saturday when a dark thought hit me: I don’t miss that at all. It was so unexpected, it actually made me catch my breath.I was leaving soccer practice with my fifth grader, having spent the previous 90 minutes kicking soccer balls with 10-year-olds.
The mothers on the playground, however, were wiping runny noses and lifting 30-pound kids onto swings. They were looking for the Goldfish crackers and explaining the concept of sharing to resistent toddlers. They were doing what I did on most sunny days years ago, yet only Saturday did I realize how much I don’t miss it. Not one bit.
What the heck is wrong with me?
Aren’t we supposed to be wistful for our kids’ “little” days when they think you’re so spectacular, they cry when you shut the bathroom door, or they shout, “Mommy!” just to make sure you’re on call?
We’re supposed to hate the teenage years and cherish the light-up sneaker days, right? But I don’t. I actually enjoy motherhood more as my kids get older.
On Friday night, I watched the Marx Brothers’ “A Day at the Races” with my 12-year-old, and he laughed in all the right places. On Saturday, I took him to a farm to buy fall decorations and a homemade pie. On the way home, we planned out a video I plan to shoot this week and he even offered to write record a song for it.
I coached my fifth grader’s soccer practice on Saturday and his game on Sunday. At dinner at my in-laws’ house last night, he sat next to me in his soccer uniform and I wore my coaching sweats. Before dessert, he went outside to juggle the ball while the grown-ups chatted inside.
And I thought I love this. I love not being needed every second. I love how self sufficient my kids have become, how they understand my jokes, and how they make their own — and they’re good. I love –dare I say– that they’re not little anymore.
“Tweenagers,” I believe, are a sneak preview to adulthood. How they are now is a lot like how they’ll be when they grow up, minus the brother-on-brother wrestling matches. (I hope.) It’s sort of a status report that our parenting is working and a bit of reassurance that the kids are turning out okay. And it’s a payoff for all those afternoons on the playground, wiping runny noses and looking for the crackers.
I don’t miss the playground, but I’ll miss my kids when they leave the nest. Until then, I will enjoy them while they’re still kids.
I agree wholeheartedly. I don’t miss the exhaustion of being on my feet all day and collapsing into bed at night. I like that my teen loves Comedy Central and watches the morning news with me. He’s 14. I am thankful his brother, 10, and sister, 9, can play outside in the yard without me supervising and can help with chores. We love our weekends with soccer and nights watching a family movie. Our oldest can now babysit so my husband can get out now and again. Life is good. I could never go back to the playground.
My daughters are ages 23 and 17 (twins), old enough to be on their own when their dad and I took a 4-day trip to Vermont. Wow. Back in the toddler-wrangling days, I would never have imagined it possible to come home to a clean house with groceries in the fridge. Love it!
I’m also loving the many road trips I’m taking the twins on to tour colleges. We have the most delightful conversations in the car without the distraction of computers, phones and TV.
I am with you too! My older one is almost ten, but I am going to start going through this again now that the baby is walking.
I’m right with you, Jen! My boys are (almost) 5 and 7, and I like this part way better than the toddler-wrangling years. Wistfulness for babies and toddlers should be left as wistfulness — not wishfulness. I just got back from the library and was shuddering watching the moms chasing after toddlers while babies chewed books or cried in strollers. Meanwhile, my boys were playing solo on the computers while I browsed the week’s books. Awesome. Later, we’re going to lunch, then Costco.
Though I draw the line at coaching soccer!
Denise